Toward Acceptance
by Afardistantshore
Summary: An episode expansion: What might have happened to Vincent and Catherine after 'The Hollow Men'.


15

**Toward Acceptance**

**By ****Afardistantshore **

Catherine hit the cold concrete between the rows of theatre seats hard. The air was knocked from her lungs. She forestalled a ragged gasp and forced herself to take silent, shallow breaths.

_Why on earth di__d I come here without backup?_ _Why didn't I just call Joe or Greg Hughes?_

She hadn't even been trying to prove herself this time, something she had finally acknowledged to herself regarding previous assignments. She just wanted closure on this case. Too many young prostitutes, brutally slain, by two equally young men—Cameron Benson and Dale Mercer had been brought up with all the privilege of elite New York society. Yet, they possessed no humanity, only arrogance and a belief that this city was their playground and that money and status would shield them from the consequences of their actions. It had already saved them once, and they had made Catherine's life miserable since—now it had come to this.

She could hear them moving closer; it was only a matter of time until they found her. She could see flashlights as they shone across the top of the seats.

_Oh Vincent__, I'm so sorry. I don't want to leave you this way._ _I wanted so much more. We deserved so much more._

Catherine had desperately wanted to conclude this case. She wanted it for the dead girls, but also to bring Vincent some solace from the anguish he'd felt since witnessing Tracy Toff's murder in the park. But coming to an abandoned theatre alone; well, it was just insane.

They were advancing down her aisle now. They would soon find her, but she would fight and use Isaac's lessons to good effect.

"I got her, Cam," shouted Dale triumphantly.

Now … Catherine lunged at him, fighting him. She turned as a shot rang out. The bullet hit a nearby seat and Catherine stopped in her tracks. Dale grabbed her, in an iron grip from behind, and the dance of death continued.

"Hi, going somewhere?" Cam queried unnecessarily. "What's the matter, don't you like scary movies?"

He discharged his gun into the seats again.

"Go on, do her," Dale shouted at Cam.

"No. Let's bring her to the stage," answered Cam, no doubt thinking there was still fun and thrills to be had.

"Are you nuts? I'm bleeding here. Let's get this over with," Dale persisted.

Before Cam could continue with his plans, a roar of anger issued from high above, echoed around the empty room, and stunned the unsuspecting pair.

Vincent dropped onto Dale like an avenging angel and dispatched him with one angry swipe of pent up rage. Dale's body flew between the rows of seats as Vincent's darker self meted out the judgment that the judicial system Above seemed unable to do.

He then turned toward Cam and advanced, facing the loaded gun. Their eyes locked and a snarl of hatred issued forth from Vincent. Cam made his decision, aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Vincent in the left shoulder.

"Vincent!" Catherine screamed.

Vincent was momentarily halted by the force of the bullet. With a roar of retribution from deep within, he continued to advance on Cam. When he reached him, Vincent showed the same mercy Cam had shown his victims. Once, twice, three times Vincent's right arm descended, sending Cam to the hell of his own making.

Catherine came up beside Vincent. "We gotta get out of here," she encouraged.

Vincent turned then, the pain in his shoulder starting to announce its presence. He ran up the aisle as adrenaline pumped through him. Catherine was left to follow as best she could.

She finally caught up with Vincent in an alley beside the theatre—where he leaned dejectedly against a wall.

"Are you all right?" Catherine's concern was evident. She threw her arms around her beloved and held on. She hoped her mere presence would offer comfort.

"Nothing but madness!" The words sounded strangled in his throat. "Nothing but blood," he continued. "When will it stop?"

Vincent turned and Catherine pressed herself against him, as he swayed. She probed under his cloak in an effort to locate the bullet wound.

Vincent raised his eyes heavenward; she could see they had started to glaze over from the shock of his injury.

"Come on Vincent," Catherine begged. "We need to get you to Father. Where's the closest tunnel entrance?"

"Down this alley," he replied, his voice weakening. "There's a grate."

Catherine bore him up on her shoulder as best she could. The pair made their halting journey further into the dark of the alley—an interminable distance, the two shadows swayed helplessly and stumbled onward. Recriminations would come later, Catherine told herself, as she focused solely on the task at hand—saving the man she loved.

Nearing the grate, Vincent's legs gave way and he went down, taking Catherine with him.

"It's okay, it's okay," she crooned. "We're here now, I'll get it open."

Vincent had said nothing for some time and Catherine's fear for him grew with each passing minute. How bad was the wound? There seemed to be a substantial amount of blood leaching through his vest; the sooner he could be still, the better.

There was a ladder going down from the grate and she had to be fairly rough in her endeavor to get Vincent onto it. Even in his weakened state he needed to find the strength to descend on his own—there just wasn't room for two in the narrow opening.

Vincent gripped the rungs with his right hand and willed his legs to perform their task. When he reached the end of the ladder there was still a drop of four feet. Letting go, he fell more than jumped the distance and collapsed once solid ground was below him. He was home—or at least in a distant arm of it.

Catherine heard the thud in the tunnel when he hit the ground. She hurriedly pulled the grate back into place, made her own descent, and landed lightly beside Vincent.

"Come on Vincent," Catherine encouraged. "We have to move. Please ... please try."

Vincent rolled to his knees and painfully struggled to his feet. He pitched and swayed like a ship at sea, but with Catherine's strength added to his own limited reserves, they managed to stagger forward.

Catherine could hear the tapping on the pipes, but it was in the distance. At their current rate of progress it would be some time before they were close enough to call for help. She was forming a plan when matters were taken out of her hands as Vincent slid to the ground, taking agonized breaths. She helped him sit back against the tunnel wall, and tried to make him more comfortable.

"Hang on," Catherine whispered in a pleading voice. "I'm going to run ahead to the junction and call for help. It won't take long ... Vincent, I love you. Please, try to stay awake."

He grabbed Catherine by the wrist and their eyes met, searching fiercely; oceans of unasked and unanswered questions, unstated facts and unspoken yearnings passed between them. Thin-lipped with pain, Vincent dropped his eyes.

Catherine turned and ran into the darkness.

...

Anguish tore at his soul.

This bullet, this time, more than any other, had ripped through his heart, as surely as it had ripped through his flesh. His resistance was low.

The turmoil ...

That such a privileged upbringing could lead to such heartless killers, who showed absolutely no remorse—death had so far a reach, past the victims and their families. Now it would reveal itself to the families of the young killers as well.

The futility ...

_Catherine, what if__ I hadn't reached you this time? My life is meaningless without you in it. Stop, stop ... it must stop, Catherine, this madness, this gamble with your life, with our lives, must stop._ Vincent's internal dialogue continued. _The price is too high ... it can't go on, can't go on ... she must stop; it must stop!_

Not so long ago, it was on the docks with Elliot Burch where he had been forced to kill. More blood on his hands—the toll of the killings was becoming greater on him. He was losing himself further to the darker side of his nature every time he killed and if he didn't draw back soon, if there wasn't change, he knew there would be nothing left. Nothing left of himself, or Catherine, or their dream of a future together ... someday.

Someday ... he laughed at himself mockingly for such foolish thoughts, foolish dreams. Who did he think he was? What rights did he think he had? The end was inevitable, and from his vantage point on the tunnel floor, he could see it. If he didn't bleed to death here and now from his wound, he would die slowly and surely from within. A tear made its way down Vincent's cheek, large and slow and sorrowful.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness claim him.

...

_Tap__ ... Tap ... Tap Tap Tap_, it went on until the message was sent and acknowledged.

Vincent needs help ... location ... stretcher ... Father hospital chamber ... now!

As soon as the acknowledgement came, Catherine hurried back down the tunnel to Vincent.

...

"No, no, no, no," Catherine moaned. "Vincent, wake up please ... stay with me."

The stain on his vest was spreading; she must stop the bleeding. Without a thought, she attacked his clothes—pulled drawstrings loose and ripped layers apart, until his chest was bare. After checking, and not finding an exit wound, Catherine pressed her palm to the wound as gently, but as firmly, as she dared, drawing a groan from Vincent.

_Goo__d, he's not too far under._

The beautiful fur of his body was under her hands for the first time, but for all the wrong reasons. She laid her head against his chest to hear his heart; it seemed strong and regular and it was a strange comfort to her. Keeping her hand in place, she knelt and looked Vincent in the face.

There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and a very weak growl was coming from deep within his throat.

_He must be in such pain__._

She wiped the hair away from his brow and kissed him there once, and then again. She whispered words of love and encouragement and willed him forward in this life. She promised things would change—she saw the need; she wouldn't do this to herself, or her beloved, ever again.

_What__'s the point?_ She pondered. _There is no point when our world is being torn apart, our hearts ripped asunder ... no point._

Finally, from far off, and then closer, she heard voices.

Help had arrived.

...

Mercifully, Vincent remained unconscious as Cullen and Kanin laid him on a stretcher and carried him back to the hospital chamber. Catherine's palm was still pressed against the wound—she would stay there forever if it kept Vincent alive.

Father's scowl at Catherine was foreshortened when he saw the state of his son.

"My God, Catherine," Father barked. "What on earth happened?"

"He was with me, protecting me," Catherine sobbed in reply. "Help him ... I think the bullet is still inside."

"Get him on the operating table," instructed Father. "Fetch Mary, immediately."

A tunnel dweller, standing by the doorway, hurried to obey.

"I'm just glad he's unconscious," Father continued. "I can't give him anesthetic; with his metabolism I'd have to give him a massive dose, which would probably kill him."

As gently as possible, Vincent's friends lifted him onto the table; his head thrashed from side to side.

"It's going to be all right Vincent, you're home," Catherine crooned into his ear. "Hold on, my love."

Miraculously, he settled and Father asked Catherine to remove her palm. He inspected the wound and listened to Vincent's heart.

"This will take some time. I have to extract the bullet, remove any threads of clothing, sterilize and stitch the wound ... you should leave Catherine," Father instructed in a brusque manner. "He could be unconscious for some time."

"No!" Catherine exclaimed, wary of Father. "I will not leave him."

"Well, I have no time to argue," Father continued. "You'll have to wait outside."

"Please, let me know as soon as you've finished," Catherine nearly begged the old man; tears formed in her eyes as reaction to events set in.

"Of course, of course," a chagrined Father replied upon realizing her distressed state, and more gently continued, "run along and have William make you some tea."

Summarily dismissed, Kanin and Cullen escorted Catherine from the room as Mary rushed in past them.

_Florence Nightingale had__ nothing on Mary._ Catherine reflected. She wandered dejectedly toward the kitchen. She could feel herself coming down as the adrenalin in her system dissipated.

"How about you wait in Vincent's chamber? You look fit to fall over," suggested Kanin. "We'll have tea sent there for you."

"Thanks, I will. I am tired," conceded Catherine. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"No problem, Catherine," said Cullen. "Anything for Vincent—he'd do the same for all of us."

"You know," Cullen continued, "we're really pulling for you and Vincent. You two belong together—blind Freddy can see that."

Catherine sighed. "Perhaps you could introduce him to Vincent then."

She turned then and slowly made her way toward Vincent's chamber. As it was very late, most of the tunnel folk were asleep, and she met no one along the way. They worked hard to make their world function with apparent ease, and Catherine knew the commitment, routine, and care needed to keep the delicate balance.

Upon reaching Vincent's chamber, Catherine crawled immediately into his bed. She had spent ten days in this bed, in another life. It was the bed where she'd learned to love truly for the first time—to love without conditions or boundaries. She had found a love here that looked past the shell and found the pearl.

Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for Vincent and fell into a restless sleep.

...

Catherine awoke to find Mary fussing over a tray laden with tea and sandwiches.

"Oh, I hope I didn't wake you dear," apologized Mary. "I thought you might be ready for tea now. You've slept all night."

"Vincent?" Catherine voiced her first thought.

"Now, hush," said Mary. "He'll be just fine. You know how quickly he heals, and Father got the bullet out; before long he'll be right as rain."

"Can I see him?" She asked, guardedly.

"Well, once you've had this tea and some of William's sandwiches, I'll take you to him," Mary promised.

Seeing no other course of action than to humor Mary, Catherine slipped to the edge of bed. She dangled her legs over the side as Mary handed her a cup and a plate of food.

"Thank you, I am a little hungry," admitted Catherine.

"Don't you fret about Father," continued Mary, as usual trying to calm the way between Father and Catherine. "He's just over protective where Vincent is concerned. He doesn't mean to appear so overbearing; he's just set in his ways. Oh, dear, now I'm just prattling on." _I want the best for Vincent, too! _Mary thought.

"That's okay, Mary," Catherine chuckled at the older woman's expression. "It's just between you and me."

After hardly touching anything, Catherine replaced her cup and plate on the tray.

"Well, if you're finished here, dear, let's go along and see Vincent." Mary suggested.

Approaching the hospital chamber Catherine was suddenly overcome with nerves. What would she find? What could she say to him? How to say it? Exposing their hearts always ended in a stalemate.

Father was there beside Vincent. He looked his officious best, haughty and self-righteous. Catherine lowered her eyes to Vincent, Father forgotten. She found, and held, his blue eyes with her own. She knelt beside the bed and gently took his hand in hers.

"Father, I'd like to be alone with Catherine," a weak voiced, but stubborn, Vincent requested.

"Yes, well, don't overtax yourself," warned Father. "I do not want those stitches opening; I'm still not sure about infection. Don't stay too long please, Catherine."

"Thank you, Father," Vincent's voice was stronger; the command in it sent Father huffing and mumbling from the room.

They were alone ...

Vincent eased his hand from Catherine's.

Her heart dropped.

...

"Vincent …"

"… Catherine," they spoke together.

"Please, go first," he invited.

"I'm so sorry this happened, but it's over now. Those killers are gone. We can move on," assured Catherine, trying to convince herself as much as him.

Vincent closed his eyes, in pain—not from his shoulder, but from his battered psyche. He had been judge, jury, and executioner to those young men. For all the horrors they had committed, he felt burdened by the horrors he had committed in order to end their reign of terror. Was he any better than they? His hands were now clean; but he could still see the blood, smell it rising rank to his nostrils—see it as surely as Lady MacBeth had.

"Catherine ..." he swallowed. "I need time. I don't know what I'm feeling right now and ... it frightens me."

"Whatever it is, we can deal with it," she replied. "I know I should have called for backup at the theatre. I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to put you in that situation."

"Catherine ... it must stop!" the words suddenly forced their way through Vincent's grim lips. His right hand balled into a fist at his side.

Vincent turned his head at that point—away from Catherine. He stared at the intravenous drip set up beside his bed.

"Vincent ..." Catherine pleaded. "I love you. Please ... don't shut me out."

"The darkness surrounds me, Catherine, it is in me," revealed Vincent. "I feel it to my core. My very soul feels black and foul."

"No!" Catherine countered. "You're just unwell, not yourself. After some rest—"

"Please, leave me now," he cut in.

"Vincent, no!" she cried in anguish. "Let me love you, be with you. Let me help you heal—you are all I have in this world."

A stony silence, and his closed eyes, was her only reply.

She dropped her head—defeated.

"Well ... please, send word for me to come down," she managed, as a sob rose in her throat.

Catherine's sob nearly undid Vincent. He opened his eyes pleadingly and turned toward her as she fled the chamber.

_P__erhaps it is better this way. _He thought, in resignation.

...

Two weeks!

It had been two weeks and no word from Vincent.

Two weeks of going through the routine of her life—work, shopping, bills, more work. Work will save you; work will set you free—so why did she feel as though she were in prison?

The first thing she had done was retrieve her car from outside the theatre. Fortunately, no connection to it had been made when the bodies had been found inside the unused theatre by a security guard. The police thought that whatever had happened in there, justice had been served. The killing of prostitutes had stopped; someone had done the dirty work, and the city was better off.

The parents had caused trouble. However, with the guns and knives found at the scene, and perhaps their own realization of the boys' true nature, even they had withdrawn their complaints.

No word from Vincent.

He must have felt her through their Bond. He must know her misery.

She had ventured Below once and sent a hopeful message on the pipes. Jamie had arrived; she looked very uneasy.

"Catherine," Jamie said.

"Jamie, how's Vincent?" Catherine queried, grabbing Jamie by the arms and doing away with pleasantries.

"Oh, you know Vincent. He's gone all quiet and withdrawn. Doesn't even hear the children calling him, walks on in a world of his own," Jamie admitted. "Father says it's no use pushing him. He has to do things in his own time, and in his own way."

"How's his shoulder?" Catherine inquired further.

"It seems okay. He's not doing heavy work yet, but he's helping Cullen with woodwork and Rebecca with the candles," Jamie informed her. "But he's all—yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir. It's like he's lost his will, his spark. He needs you Catherine. He's as stubborn as Mouse sometimes."

"Will you tell him...?" Catherine started. "Just tell him I'm here for him."

"Sure thing," Jamie sighed. "I'll tell him."

A quick hug and Jamie was gone, like the spirited young woman she was, back to her tunnel home, to her tunnel family and friends.

_I want that tunnel home, too__. I'm so lonely. Vincent … please … come to me. _

Catherine retreated to her basement entrance, wiping tears from her cheeks as she went. How many more times would she climb these stairs between their worlds?

Her weary foot hit the bottom rung.

...

Vincent had been slaying dragons within himself for weeks now. His other self battled with him most nights, and whenever he was alone. Some nights Vincent won, sometimes the darkness held sway. The one inexorable truth, which became clearer to him by the hour, was that he needed Catherine to show him the light. She was his light. Without her, the night was blacker, the abyss he was in was deeper and, as he'd predicted, his heart was overwhelmed by despair.

He had repeatedly tried to suppress their Bond, to push it down, but waves of misery and fear escaped. Catherine's journey was, apparently, no less fraught with despairand heartache than his own.

He owed it to her to explain. He also acknowledged, to himself, that he wanted to see her, and needed to hear her voice.

With a swirl of cloak, Vincent turned and hastened up the tunnel, his mind made up.

...

Not since her father had died had Catherine felt so despondent. Hopelessness and loss warred within her for supremacy; and the agony of loneliness consumed her.

She knew that Joe was concerned for her at work; he had told her she looked drawn and pale. She had lost weight she could scarcely afford to lose; her clothes were hanging on her body.

She had wandered around her dark apartment through endless nights, wearing tracks in the carpet. She had looked for hours out at the city, from her balcony—their balcony.

_Where __are you, Vincent? How are you?_ She kept asking herself, like a record stuck in a track.

_I__ can't go on like this. It isn't right._

All she wanted was a happy life—a husband to love her, hold her through the long nights, through a long life; children, friends to care for her, a place in the world for her to call home. Not her lonely apartment, but a real home.

Even her work had lost its appeal. She had asked Joe to take her off investigations and place her with the trial division. Rather than lose her he had agreed. Then he had told her to "Get out of the office, take a week off and get over whatever is making you look like you've just escaped from a concentration camp!" That was three days ago and she had not left her apartment since.

_What if he __comes? What if I'm not here? How pathetic am I?_ She would shower, wash her hair, and change her clothes—maybe go to a movie. This moping around was not accomplishing anything.

Her mind made up, Catherine headed for the bathroom.

...

_Tap__ ... Tap._

Catherine emerged from her bathroom dressed. Her hair hung in damp tendrils around her face. She ran to the balcony doors and flung them wide. Vincent. She drank in the sight of him. He pulled back a little then and stood alone and vulnerable, arms by his side, in the middle of the balcony.

He dropped his head but raised his eyes, and took in the very essence of her, savoring the air around her. Oh ... how he'd missed her.

"Vincent." Her voice was low and tentative, almost a question.

"Are you well, Catherine?" Vincent asked.

"I am, and your shoulder?" she replied.

"Father seems happy with it. It does ache a little, but it is healing," he answered.

He could tell she had, in fact, not been well. The hollows in her cheeks had not been there previously. She looked like she would blow over in a strong wind. How did she have the strength to virtually carry him home? Regardless, she looked perfect in his eyes; and he wanted her so very much. His clenched hands trembled by his sides.

They stood for some time, unspeaking, shy and unsure of how to proceed. So much had happened between them, each was afraid to make a mistake, to damage this fragile truce.

He looked wonderful to her. There was, however, a wariness in his eyes she didn't like. Catherine's need to move forward grew stronger. Waiting in this limbo was no longer an option.

She spoke quietly, keeping the tenor of her voice even. "We are talking to each other like polite strangers."

"That is not my intention. You could never be a stranger to me."

Heartened by his reply, Catherine asked nervously, "Won't you ... would you ... please ... hold me?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from Vincent.

"Catherine ... my struggles are many. I fear that tonight it would be more than I could bear, to be ... so close to you." He was honest, but gentle, in his rejection.

Catherine's breath caught in her throat. Her arms went automatically around herself, in comfort, in protection, however useless the gesture. Why had he come, then? What did this mean?

She turned and took a step back into her bedroom. Running away? That was usually Vincent's trick.

_I__f you can't beat 'em, join 'em._ She thought.

"Please ... don't go," he begged.

She stopped then, but refused to return to the balcony. She didn't turn around. He conceded her the ground and came to stand in the doorway. He owed her that. He knew she had been feeling abandoned through his absence these last weeks.

"Please—hear me," he whispered despairingly. "I ... this darkness within me, it threatens to consume me. It causes such rages, and, I am lost in it. I am ashamed that you have seen me that way, too often."

In lieu of pacing, he began to rock in the doorway. He aimed his pleading words at Catherine's back.

"I need to distance myself; I've lost my ... balance. You must stay in your world, find Elliot Burch," he nearly spat the words through clenched teeth. Forever, this man would be a thorn in his heart, the epitome of all he thought Catherine should have; all he could not give her. "Forget about me," he ended.

This was the right thing to say! As much as he needed her light and her love, he felt honor-bound not to pull her into his dark and limited world.

Catherine swirled around to face him with that last statement, and staggered back another step.

"Well, that's just dandy," her anger was like a fire within her. "Go back to your 'safe place' Vincent," sarcasm dripped from her tongue. "Keep me in that little box in your mind where you know what's best for me. But, you really have no idea what's best for me. Only I know that!"

Her eyes flashed at him, piercing his attempted calm. He raised his arms in frustration and stepped into the room. He didn't even know he'd done it.

"I ... I just can't kill any more," he finally came to the point. "It's killing me, killing us, our dream."

"Oh, Vincent, I know," she said, calming now. "I've already had Joe move me into the trial division. I won't be out on the streets investigating any more. I won't have any more dangerous assignments."

Relief flooded through him.

But there was more, she could sense it. This wasn't settled yet.

"Your life is still Above," he continued vehemently, the old argument resurfacing. "You must be who you are meant to be."

"Who I am meant to be, or who you think I'm meant to be?" she questioned. "Because, quite frankly, they are two entirely different people."

"Vincent," she entreated him, changing her tone. "My work keeps me busy, keeps me up late, but it doesn't keep me warm at night."

She took a step toward him.

"I'm jealous of you..." she started.

He looked at her with disbelieving eyes.How could anyone be jealous of him?

"No, don't look at me like that. I envy you your family, your closeness to everyone, and I want that—for me, for us."

"Every time we don't touch," she continued, "our eyes burn with passion, unrequited, and our dream withers. Soon we won't even look at each other for fear of seeing the truth. There will be nothing left; our dream will merely be a mirage, and there will be only desert and emptiness for all the long years ahead. Regret—Vincent, when you choose not to take that step forward, remember regret," she finished, hanging her head. "If you don't love me enough to try, fine, but that's another matter."

Tears dripped from her chin, but her eyes remained resolute.

What had he done? Had he broken her completely?

Hardly realizing what he was doing, as tears streamed down his face, he moved further into the room and gathered her to him. She wrapped grateful arms around him and held on, waiting for this storm of agony and tears to pass.

"Never think I don't love you. I do," the words were torn from Vincent; they sounded ragged in his throat. "I want the world for you."

They held each other tighter, almost as if they were trying to form one person. Then, after two years of denial, it seemed as natural as night and day when Vincent lowered his head, Catherine raised hers, and their lips met in a kiss.

At first it was gentle, tentative and almost experimental. Soon the kiss deepened and it was laced with pure passion. They could no longer resist their desires. Any dreams of this moment were realized in the possibility held in their kiss.

Catherine's legs were pressed against the bed. She let them bend, bringing her to a sitting position. She pulled Vincent down to kneel between her legs.

Her hands came up to touch his face as they broke from the kiss. He gathered her closer and held her tightly, as if he might never release her.

Their mouths met again and Catherine ran her tongue around his lips, focusing on the cleft of his top lip, sending sensations vibrating through him.

"I love you. I need this, we need this," she said.

Vincent tried to resist, his lack of experience invaded his mind.

"But ... Catherine?"

"No buts—let's move forward, together, in love."

She could sense the very moment he allowed himself to believe, to accept that their dream was possible for him, for them ... and he let go. He let go of perceptions he had held for a lifetime. Instantly, she could see it in his beautiful, fathomless blue eyes, the eyes she wanted to lose herself in for an eternity.

She reached up and loosened the fastening at his neck. His cloak fell, unhindered, to the floor. Next she reached for the ties of his vest—so many clothes, so much work to do.

She kissed him fiercely, raining kisses where tears had fallen, licking his face and loving the feel of the bristles—amazed that she now had the right to do so.

In his turn, Vincent touched her still damp hair and nuzzled the hollow at her throat, a spot he'd coveted for two long years. He was not disappointed.

She shivered from the sensation and threw her head back to give him easier access. Gaining confidence, his kisses moved lower, to the valley between her breasts.

She tore open his shirt and his beautiful chest was finally exposed. She ran her hand over the scar from the bullet wound. She would always hate it for the pain it had caused, but love it for finally bringing them together. A counterpoint to her scar—through adversity comes triumph. She bent and gently placed a kiss on the scar and softly touched it with her finger.

"Catherine ... you undo me," Vincent moaned.

"Not yet. But I will," she tried to lighten his mood.

She leaned back a little and proceeded to unbutton her blouse, drawing the fabric away to reveal her bra, red and lacy.

His hands came up, and then he froze. The contrast between his work-roughened hands, his clawed animal hands, with their furred covering, and her soft beauty, underscored every lesson he had ever been taught on what was impossible for him.

He gasped.

"Vincent," she ordered, grabbing his chin and linking her eyes with his. "Don't you dare pull away. Remember, these are my hands, I love your hands. I love where they are, and I love how they are making me feel."

She released her bra fastening and the garment fell away. She pressed his hands firmly to her, moaning at his touch. She then reached behind his head and gently encouraged him back to where he had been earlier, nuzzling her cleavage.

She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, admiring his physique. There was not an ounce of spare flesh—he was all muscle, covered with the softest, most touchable fur.

Their kisses deepened, the give and take of each other's tongues tantalized and tortured in turn; each wanted more, gave more, took more.

He ran his hand down her arm and she leaned in for another kiss. Their mouths melded, Vincent's fangs nipped her inadvertently, but she loved that sharp pain, a real "love-bite". It thrilled her.

Catherine moved away momentarily and kicked off her sneakers and socks. She reached to unzip her jeans and moved back on the bed, slipping out of them as she went. She reached out her hand to Vincent, in an invitation for him to join her.

Gathering courage Vincent dispensed with the rest of his clothing and returned to her gladly, seeing acceptance and love in her expressive features.

_Lovely._ She thought.

They lay face to face as they enjoyed the feel of closeness, the touch of skin on skin, something he had never experienced and she, not for an age, and certainly not as enjoyably as this. Two years of frustrated, controlled abstinence heightened the experience for both of them.

He had no words.

They explored and discovered each other as equals for some time—two becoming one.

When their union came it was a time of beauty and passion, the end of their aloneness. Any fears they may have had slipped away as nature took over, teaching more than books could about the art of love.

"Vincent!"

"Catherine!" They cried out as one, as they tipped over the edge. A roar issued, unbidden, from his throat.

Vincent collapsed on top of his beloved.

They held. They didn't move for an age. The world could have ended at that very moment and they would have died happy. But ... the world was not finished with them yet.

Finally, he raised his head, tears in his eyes as he beheld his Catherine.

"I love you," he stated simply. "I can never leave you."

"Vincent," she answered him simply. "In you—I have my home."

The End

"_**I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my second self, and best earthly companion." Edward Rochester to Jane Eyre **_

**(Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte****, 1847)**


End file.
